


big boys, small boys

by noviceoeuvre



Series: drabbles/unfinished stories [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, ocs :(, scrapped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 07:56:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12766524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noviceoeuvre/pseuds/noviceoeuvre
Summary: scrapped :/





	big boys, small boys

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sorry aly

He has been walking for quite a while now, to where, he doesn’t know. he has been storming throughout the pathways and small assemblies of people, the blatant irritation portrayed on his face silencing the crowds and dragging their eyes upon him – however, this phenomenon wasn’t something out of the ordinary. He’s always attracted attention toward himself, as if it was some sort of necessity to his body; like he needed to feel people’s eyes glaring at him with fear or lust. He hated the way they talked about him, with a sort of cautious resentment, as if he were some sort of untameable beast with a fragile temper.

And even now, as he storms throughout the towns he can feel it: the people looking at him, or his body, talking about him, talking about ‘that thing on his face’, asking insolent questions, talking with resentment, he hates it so much. he hates being the people’s gossip gadget, he hates being used as the daily talk in the town. He hates being viewed as a monster.

He isn’t the monster.

It’s the spirit inside of him that is.

Why wouldn’t anyone understand that?

As these frustrated thoughts linger in his mind and caress his concern, he still looks for a place to relax, somewhere where he can let loose and not have the bystanders swoon over his face or body, or, worse, scrutinize his every move – but he doesn’t think that place exists, considering almost everyone in this suffocating town know about what he is.

He sighs, as he roughly tousles his choppy hair, trying to somewhat mollify the frustration that builds inside him – because he knows how the people will react if he shows just an ounce of irritation: ‘watch out, he’s going to go berserk!’ ‘honey, back away, he’s dangerous,’ ‘he’s a maniac, isn’t he? What if he gets one of us!’. he always has to be cautious about the way he looks, and he has to always cope with any frustration, because, truthfully, it is a hazard to him and the people around him.

He begins to slow his pace, because he finds that if he walks too harshly, it’ll concern the people around him and stimulate the seething within him further. he steadies his breathing by inhaling the frankly very refreshing air, and he finds that it calms him, the formulaic movement of his chest.

He eventually does find a serene place, it’s less populated – he’s always had a thing with crowds, he can’t stand them – and he can only hear the gentle noises of the animals around him. he sits underneath the inviting shade of the tree, as he rests his back against the trunk of the tree. His heart is still pounding viciously in his chest, and his breaths are more audible than they were earlier.

He lets his eyes close for a moment, letting himself comprehend and enjoy this peaceful scene.

he can’t remember when he found this tree, this spot, this exact place, because he’s sure he’s always loved this place. He’s sure this place was always meant to be his getaway from the people. He’s sure this place, in the midst of a barren field, underneath a tree that seems to grow with him, amongst the blissful, small creatures that, unlike the people, don’t fear him.

he exhales, as he slumps his body further down.

He smiles as the familiar tender breeze runs across his cheeks. it makes him feel alive, this feeling, without the people around him.

He loves it here.

He sinks into his own mind for a little while, indulging in his own dreams, because he finds that those are his other getaways:  his dreams – ones where he just watches vaguely as things happen, as colors change, and as the situations transpire. He likes that he doesn’t have to worry, or if he does, he can’t really feel the worry like he does in real life – the worry is faint, almost not there, because he almost always knows he’s dreaming.

It’s the best feeling, feeling like nothing and worrying about nothing.

He wishes he could feel like that all the time.

He’s suddenly jolted out of his sleep, because the sudden sensation of falling had taken over his dream, and he doesn’t like that feeling; there’s also a little sound pestering at his ears, and it’s a sound he doesn’t like.

It’s a bird, and he can hear it, quietly whimpering.

His eyes quickly dart around his scenery, trying to locate where the bird is, because he can already tell that it’s hurt.

After a little while of his eyes frantically jumping around the scenery, he sees it; a small bird resting on the ground, one of its legs seemingly hurt. The bird’s feathers are pigmented with varying colors, all of the same dull color palette – black, light grey, brown. But he still finds the bird beautiful, either way, and he’s even more concerned about it now.

He inches toward it and it seems the bird notices, because it starts to try to move. He tries hushing it, tries being a little quieter as he approaches it, but the bird still tries retreating, and he finds something strange about this bird; this bird, unlike all the animals he’s encountered, seems to be genuinely afraid of him – and not instinctively, like all animals are – it’s like this bird knows who he is, knows what he’s done, knows what he is.

He pauses for a moment, as the bird continues squirming frantically, twittering and squawking.

He doesn’t know how, or if it’s just his imagination running wild, but he could’ve sworn the bird had fear plaguing its eyes.

‘please, I won’t hurt you, I promise,’ he mumbles hesitantly, and he doesn’t know why, but he’s worrying now.

The bird pauses in its fit to look at him. in this moment, he gently slides his hands underneath the bird’s frail body, and brings it up to his face so that he can examine its legs; it was hard though, because the bird was just that small, he has to really focus to get any details.

the bird was so small, he almost finds it cute – it was actually so small that it barely reached the size of his palm.

After a couple of moments, he sighs, and gets up, still gently keeping the bird in his hand. The bird seems startled by the sudden movement and begins to rashly move, but he sedates its worry. He softly caresses its wing, and it seems that it calms the bird, as it stops squirming.

‘I’ll just take you home, alright? I’ll fix up your legs and then I’ll let you fly free, okay?’ he speaks gently, as if he were speaking to a human, rather than a bird. But he finds that the bird responds, in its own way, and he feels confident knowing that the bird can somewhat understand him.

He walks home, this time avoiding the bustling crowds of people, the bird carefully held in his hand. He doesn’t understand why but he enjoys the feeling of the bird hesitantly moving underneath and upon his palm. He likes the way its feathers brush across his skin, it makes him feel good inside.

Once he reaches his apartment, he unlocks the door and opens the lights, the almost abrupt change in scenery scaring the bird. He hushes it; however, the bird still remains jumpy.

He walks to his living room and cautiously places the bird down on one of his cushions and pleads that it stays there so that he can get a first aid kit. The bird, like always, remains silent and he takes it as it agreeing – even then though, he carefully watches him as he scavenges for his first aid kit.

Once he does find it, he returns to the bird, smiling a soft smile that only just deepens the dimples on his cheeks. the bird is really cute, and he can’t help but beam when he sees it.

‘I’ll wrap your legs, alright? Then I’ll go and get you something to eat, okay?’ he says concerned, as he mindfully holds each of the bird’s legs with his fingers, tenderly wrapping around the thin bandage around his legs.

He hears the bird whimper slightly, and he lets go. ‘I’m sorry, am I hurting you? I guess I was holding your legs really roughly… I’m really sorry, I’ll be gentler,’ he mumbles, as he loosens his frankly already very loose grip on its legs. He continues wrapping its legs gently, and once he’s finished, he gets up. He’s gotten somewhat used to the idea that the bird can somehow understand him, thus he tells it to stay where it is whilst he looks for food.

He decides that the best thing he can feed the bird is bread, and he also decides he’ll add some flavor with some hummus.

Whilst softly crushing the bread to make it easier for the bird to eat, he hears shuffling and muffled movement. For a moment, he pauses, but then he considers the size of the bird, and disregards the possibility of it being the bird.

It’s not until he hears a whimper – a whimper that couldn’t possibly come from a bird – does he get anxious. However, he tries his best to soothe that anxiety, because he thinks it could just be his mind playing tricks on him, something it does whenever it feels like going against him. Even if he can hear human whimpers and cries, he tries reassuring himself that it’s just his mind, because realistically, how could a human get into his house?

Eventually, he finishes preparing the food for the bird, and he walks slowly and hesitantly toward where he left it. He’s suddenly become fearful, because he swears he can hear the noises becoming louder as he approaches. He calms himself, heavily inhaling and exhaling, because he can feel that feeling creeping up on him again.

He’s at the doorknob now, and the cries are still muffled but they’re louder. His hand loiters over the doorknob, as he feels his heart pound – why is he getting so scared? It’s not as if a person is suddenly in his house. If there was a person, he would’ve heard them get in.

Unless they came in whilst he was out.

Well, that thought doesn’t help.

He inhales again; he shouldn’t think about it too much, if he does, he’ll get more worried.

He closes his eyes, rests his hand on the doorknob, pulls it down, and thrusts his arm to the side, opening the door widely. He hesitates for a moment, letting his eyes remain closed – he figures elongating the surprise will lessen its impact.

He waits, inhaling again.

One more second.

Another.

Another.

It’s a good time to open his eyes now.

When he does though, the sound of plates crashing onto the floor chime inside the house and resonate proudly, as he momentarily lost grip of them, because what he sees shakes him.

A boy, likely no older than fifteen, sitting exactly where he left the small bird, his slender legs positioned strangely, his bare body embraced by the harsh light of the small room, his hands covering himself.

Kwan quickly covers his eyes, his face ignited with a red pigment. He begins to stutter, as he slowly leaves the room, and as he says ‘I – I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to – I’ll just – I’ll just leave you,’ behind his hands. He doesn’t let himself comprehend how there’s a boy in his house, he’s simply too shaken to think straight.

He’s about to close the door, when the boy quietly mumbles something that makes him stop.

‘…come back…’

He stops, as he peaks through his fingers. He immediately closes the gap again as he sees that the boy hasn’t concealed himself yet. He doesn’t want to talk to the boy when he’s naked, especially considering he was a minor too.

‘can you.. can you please – uh – cover your.. parts…’ he mumbles anxiously, as he feels his face inflating with heat.

‘what…? What do you mean?’ he says, and kwan notices how sharp his voice is. he has perfect diction and it seems he has no hesitation when he speaks, so kwan figures he isn’t from around here.

‘your… parts,’ he mumbles again, and he’s removed his hands away from his face, but he’s directed his eyes toward the ground. His eyes are wandering around the floor, and his face is portraying a concoction of anxiety and a forced simper.

‘what are my parts?’ he asks again, and he can hear the boy shuffle, and kwan is fearful that he’s approaching him.

‘your thingy,’ and kwan’s eyes travel towards his midsection, trying to imply what he’s talking about, because he’s somewhat hesitant to tell the boy directly, considering how young he is.

The boy just inclines his head, still unsure of what he means.

After a moment, though, he realises what he’s talking about, and rushes back to the couch and conceals himself with a pillow.

Kwan momentarily looks up, finds that the boy has covered himself, and exhales.

He suddenly remembers the plates he dropped, and apologises, as he gets on his knees, picking up the pieces.

‘I’ll just – clean this up,’ he says as he picks up the pieces. He momentarily looks around for a place to keep them, then just decides on making a pouch in his shirt by holding it up. He stuffs the broken pieces of plates and food into it, then erratically looks around for somewhere of disposal.

The boy sitting on the couch finds this scene somewhat fascinating. He’s admittedly scared of the man, but it seems he wasn’t as scary as he’d heard from his peers.

Kwan walks away towards the bathroom and dumps the trash in his shirt in the garbage. He quickly walks to the kitchen and finds something for the boy to eat, because the boy is really skinny, and he thinks that he hasn’t eaten in a while.

He returns with a tray load of snacks and gently places them down on the already very congested coffee table in front of the couch. He sits next to the boy, albeit a little far away. kwan grabs a bag of chips and asks the boy to open his mouth, he had somehow accumulated in his mind that he couldn’t feed himself.

‘what are you doing?’ the boy asks, yet he obeys anyway, opening his mouth and letting kwan place the chip inside.

Now that he sits up close to the boy, he recognizes how young and soft his features are, and it almost leaves him awestruck, the way his features bathe in the light and gleam.

wavy blond hair that reminded him of ramen, with such formulaic curls and such unorganized yet organized structure, it was strange – the way his hair gleamed was almost heavenly. It seemed so perfect, as if each single strand of his untouched hair was glistened with the finest gloss. a top of his hair protruded something kwan couldn’t really understand. they were something like black wings, situated on the top of his head.

a small, edgeless nose that was almost like a button, with a small mole placed on its bridge; pale, unblemished skin with minor hints of a rose hue, so perfect and pasty that it was almost unbelievable – like he was from an entirely different world – because he’d never seen something of such perfection. The bridge of his nose overshadowed his lips, ones with a beautiful hue and almost Ombre-like pigmentation, and with a rather full size to them.

round, European eyes, child-like in all senses of the word, with pure brown irises – they held no essence of harm or maliciousness, and it stunned him.

his face in general was unbelievable, the doll like shape, the almost radiant milky skin, the perfect craftsmanship of his face made kwan speechless. He could stare at his face all day, he could stare at how his skin shifted to accommodate his movement, he could stare at all the minor actions of his face as he breathed: the flaring of his nostrils, the flickering of his eyes, as his long, thick eye lashes momentarily made contact with his skin, the small beads of natural water that rimmed his eyes, reflecting the light and only emphasising their size more, the hinging and unhinging of his jaw every time he opened his mouth–

kwan is interrupted from his adoration of the boy’s heavenly features by his hand making contact with the glossy plastic of the packet.

‘what are you doing…?’ the boy asks again, and this time kwan retracts from his somewhat leaning position.

‘I was just looking at you… sorry,’ kwan mumbles sheepishly.

‘no, I mean – why are you feeding me?’

‘oh, I was… you’re very skinny so I thought I should…’ he says, as his face is directed towards the ground.

‘but I can feed myself,’

‘I’m – I’m sorry… I just… you’re so skinny… and I just thought you were hungry… I’m sorry…’ he says hesitantly because unlike the boy’s face, he has a sharp way of saying things, and kwan’s always sensitive when he’s scolded.

‘it’s fine,’ the boy says finally, and there’s some sort of curiosity in his voice, as he watches the man who is much bigger than him sulk. Truthfully, kwan opposed what he thought he would be.

‘can I have more?’ he asks, his face ignited with a radiant light.

Kwan and the boy sit for a while in silence as the boy eats the snacks happily. It seemed that kwan’s inferences that he was hungry were correct, as he avidly eats the food with absolutely no hesitation.

Kwan tries for small conversation with the boy, to at least get a name, but the boy is difficult to understand due to the amount of food he violently shoves into his mouth. Thus, they sit in a silence, the boy joyfully eating his hunger away, as kwan watches, yet again enthralled by his mere figure.

After a while, the boy finishes, and lies on his back, his chest inflating and deflating, a faint smile wore on his face.

‘you were very hungry,’ kwan comments quietly, his hands intertwined and placed awkwardly in between his thighs.

‘I got sick of nuts and leaves, can you really blame me?’ he replies, exasperated.

‘you ate nuts and leaves?’ kwan asks curiously, inkling his head, because, from what he remembers, nuts and leaves weren’t sufficient for someone to live off of.

‘yeah, just what a normal bird could find. I mean, yeah, occasionally I would find some scavenges of bread and that, and sometimes I would go into my human form and actually purchase food, but that was very rarely considering I could easily be caught…’ he explains, somewhat mindlessly.

Kwan sounded his confusion, as he inclined his head further, and furrowed his thick brow. The boy wasn’t making any sense.

The boy’s eyes travelled to rest on kwan’s uncomfortable figure. For a moment, he contemplates something, and it seems it really troubles him, what he thinks about. He releases the thought, as he turns back, his eyes wandering the room.

‘I guess I may as well tell you, since you’ve taken care of me…’ he mumbles, and this time, his diction isn’t sharp or piercing; it’s more feeble and prudent than anything. It’s concerning.

He pauses again, inhaling.

‘I’m a shapeshifter,’

Kwan takes a moment for the words to settle, and when they do, he, yet again, inclines his head – he doesn’t see why the boy is so anxious. ‘so..?’

‘”so”?’ the boy replies spitefully, replicating kwan’s somewhat lost diction. ‘do you understand the weight of that? that I’m a shapeshifter?’

‘not really? what’s wrong with that?’

‘”what’s wrong with that”? “what’s wrong with that”, seriously? you really don’t know?’ he says, both shocked and irritated.

‘no… I’m sorry…’ kwan mumbles, because the boy’s voice has suddenly retained that sharp, stabbing way of talking, and he really feels like he’s done something wrong because of the way he speaks.

‘wow, what, has that “spirit” inside you made you an idiot or something? or – or, have you just always been this slow? Seriously, tell me, how can you be so unaware?’ he jabs at kwan, and kwan is slowly losing his confidence in talking with this boy, and the angelic image inside his head has somewhat abated.

‘I – I – I was told I’m a little…slow… I’m sorry…’ kwan says, and it seems the boy notices his hesitance again, as he releases the temper he was building up.

‘I’m sorry, I just have a bad temper,’ he sighs, as he tousles his hair, somewhat compensating for how rude he’s being to someone who’s treating him with genuine care.

He pauses.

‘shapeshifters are outlawed. That’s what I was implying,’ he says feebly, as he stares at the bare ceiling.

He hates his temper, and he hates that he’s taken it out on a man that’s treated him well. He dwells in how rude he’d been so far, and how much he just wants to apologise; but he’s always had a superiority complex, he’s always found it difficult to apologise, even when he was definitely in the wrong – and even now, as he stares at the ceiling, he just wants to apologise for how rude he’s been, and he wants to make it up to him, but he’s not sure how.

‘oh, alright… do you want to take a bath, mr. shapeshifter?’ kwan asks, and the boy notices how he’s gotten up, his hand offered to help him up. ‘if you say you’re a bird, that must mean you’re not very clean – I don’t mean to offend you, by the way… but my mom always visits here, and she’s very annoying about how clean my house is…’ he mumbles sheepishly, with a hesitant grin wore on his face – the mere mention of his mom made him feel happy, as he remembers the food she’d make him.


End file.
